


Twas the night before Christmas

by WeeSweetieMice



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeSweetieMice/pseuds/WeeSweetieMice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One way or another, Jamie's going to get Malcolm home on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twas the night before Christmas

  
Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve and Malcolm was still in the office. He wasn't overly happy about that: while he wasn't a particular fan of Christmas ("a waste of fucking tangerines", as he told Sam) the evening before was much more preferable to the day itself. But no, another fuck-up at the Home Office and he was fielding calls from Newsnight. Jesus, could they not take the day off either? He sighed as he went to return the next in a series of stupid questions. He had better things he could be doing. He had, in particular, _someone_ he could be doing... and right on cue his office door swung open much more forcefully than the the architecture of Number Ten deserved.

"I've fixed it," grinned the dishevelled and diminutive figure in the doorway.

"You've wha'? Jamie, what the fuck have you done?"

"No more calls, Malc. I've sorted it. No more calls from Newsnight, Paxman wouldn't fucking _dare_ go ahead now."

A terse and bitten reply: "What have you _done_?"

"Ach c'mon, it's Christmas, Malc! Let's go home. No, no, wait- hang on, it's fine, I've sorted it out. I've wanted to get back at that Scot-hating newscunt for a while now and BINGO, turns out he might be on some very dodgy and hypocritical ground over who he hires to clean his house. Wouldn't look good if he has a go at our lot for illegal immigrant labour, would it?"

"Jesus fucking Christ on a Christmas Tree, Jamie. We can't afford to fuck over Newsnight. This had better result in a truce or you're in serious fucking trouble."

Jamie smirked. "It's Christmas Eve, everyone's fucked off and no one fucking cares what happens in the world for the next 48 hours as long as Die Hard's on the telly and they don't have to move more than three steps from the food." He advanced towards the desk and leant on it, eye level with his boss. "So what exactly are you going to do, eh?"

"What am I going to do?" Quick as flash Malcolm's hand shot out and circled Jamie's wrist, gripping hard. "If I find that you've shat all over a very delicate journalistic relationship then you won't be able to sit down for a fucking week, sweetheart."

Jamie's eyes gleamed. A sarcastic endearment was better than no endearment. He licked his lips. "Is that so? You think you're in charge of _that_?"

"Oh, I'm only starting," hissed Malcolm, and Jamie yelped as the grip on his wrist tightened. "What? You think I'm hurting you now? I'm going to tie you to the bed so fucking tightly that you won't be able to roll up your shirtsleeves until the bruises have healed. Every pathetic move you make will hurt - and you'll be moving all right, with me pounding you into the fucking mattress. I will fucking _impale_ you."

Jamie remained motionless, attempting to control the smile he could feel forming.

"Then you're going to get down on your knees, darlin', and you're going to suck my cock properly. Not your usual halfhearted fucking excuses for a blowjob - Christ, did those priests not teach you _anything_ useful? I want you gagging and whining for more. And then, if you're lucky - and I don't know how lucky someone who works in this godforsaken hole can actually be - I might let you touch yourself- Hey! Don't fucking grin at me! It isn't a punishment if you like it!"

"Let's go home, Malc…"

Malcolm released his grasp from Jamie's wrist and stood up. "Get a car. Now. Forget this Christmas bullshit - it won't be the holy fucking spirit coming upon you tonight, it'll be me, and you'll be fucking _begging_ for it. Got it?" He lightly trailed his fingers over Jamie's, then raised his hand and gently stroked his thumb down the younger man's cheek.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas, love. Let's go."

**Author's Note:**

> (Spur of the moment because the moment is Christmas Eve and writing is a good distraction from cleaning the bathroom.)


End file.
